The Ballad of Mona Lisa
by selfishshipper
Summary: No one important. He's just another human, there's many of those. Although, there aren't many of him. No one would ever be like him. God creates us all different; different talents, different visions. And he was blessed. Well too damn bad. RATED M FOR SUICIDE. {{Part 2 in the Origins series}}


**I kinda think this one is a bit shit tbh, but here you go. More suicide, yay. So lots of you requested I continue the first one (The Death of A Bachelor), and instead of actually like, continuing that one, I did something different. So here ya go, hope you enjoy.**

 **Warning: yes, there is suicide. Don't read if you don't like suicide. Easy peasy, don't come kill me.**

The sky, colored with thick blue paint and dotted with bright stars. The moon, which cast its cold, cruel judgment over all those who stood below it. And him, porcelain face shaded pink from the cool air. Ratty blond hair shining pale in the light. And eyes that glowed emerald through the miserable darkness. He laughed a bit at his analysis, sending a small cloud of fog from his mouth. Standing and staring at the world around him, he closed his eyes.

No part of him wanted to die. You'd have to be mad to wish that. Though he did not fear it; why should he fear the unknown? He almost found death amusing. It was right in front of you. So close, all you had to do was make one decision, and the unknown would become known. Such decision seemed so easy when you really thought about it. And yet, when said decision was staring him in the face, things weren't so simple all of a sudden. This was his life; he knew how important it was. He valued it, he wanted to make the most of it. There was only one of him, there would only ever be one of him. No one would ever look exactly like him, no one would ever act exactly like him, and, more importantly, no one would ever see the world like him. His visions and his talents would forever be his and his only. Of course, it seemed as though God was not feeling the sentimentality. Because while he knew full well what he was capable of, it seemed as though his ideas and visions were not welcome. And it wasn't just a matter of where he was. No, it was a matter of time as well. He was simply born in the wrong time.

Opening his green eyes, he looked to the crumpled pieces of parchment that littered the pavement. Surely, no one would appreciate his scribbles. Of course, that didn't mean that they would never. Maybe, if he were born years and years later from that moment, his talents would be appreciated. So, here he stood, feet rooted on the ground, atop the bridge that overlooked a great lake. The water rippled and sparkled under the moon's glow. It seemed so alluring, small waves dancing and shining, seeming to call forth all those who watched. It was a siren's dance, bringing any unfortunate enough to be caught in its trance to their deaths.

Now came the convincing. He did not want to die, yet he also didn't want to live. Surely, he'd be forgotten. Maybe he'd make the headline, but only for a day. Then, it would be as if nothing happened. The world would move on. He was counting on that. Maybe, God would have mercy, and give him another chance. Place him in the future, where his talents, visions, and feelings would have a place. The future, where he'd have a chance. But here, there were no chances.

27 years he'd been on this earth. 27 years of constant rejection. What a bittersweet ending to such an average story. An orphan boy; that was original. An unappreciated artist; quite boring indeed. And yet, curiosity drove him forward. Curiosity and boredom. This life was so uneventful, so average, so frustrating. Whatever lie ahead was a new adventure, one he did not have the patience to wait for.

This impatience caused him to take another step forward. Only a few more steps and he'd be dancing with those waves. It felt almost peaceful, standing under the moon's cool glow, playing with his life. The more he thought about it, the more he realized he held no hate. No hate for those who had brought him here. After all, it wasn't their fault. Such a simple decision. He could move forward, take one more step. So he did.

Now standing directly over the water's promise, a soft breeze flowed past him. Crumpled parchment rustled and moved, skipping across the pavement. Yet, it seemed as though the breeze simply moved past him. As if he were already a dead man. As if the decision had already been made. He still had a choice; he could back up. Step away, use all his willpower to resist the siren's alluring song, the promise of a new story. Something better. Something less boring. Maybe the colors would glow brighter, vivid and warm. Instead of the moon's harsh glow, he'd feel the sun's warm rays. He'd see the pastels and the brights, not just the darks and the grays. Really, was everything just an art metaphor?

Why was he laughing? Sending his breath into the air, seeing it hover over the water before disappearing. Pointless. It was all pointless. It would all be gone one day. Even if, one day, centuries from now, he made it big. Even if he finally got credit for what he knew he could do, would it really mean anything?

With his mind so jumbled, his senses muted so that his eyes could analyze the world around him, his brain unable to focus on one thought at a time, he smirked.

He saw a chance.

His logic couldn't save him when his brain was so jumbled.

So many thoughts, and all he had to do was _move forward._

Before his brain could stop him. Before his logic, his survival instinct, or his fear could stop him.

There was an icy blast. One that shot electricity up his spine. Cold. It was cold. Not unexpected. His lungs tightened as his brain tried to process what had happened. Why, all of a sudden, the world was so dark. Why, all of a sudden, oxygen was unreachable. Why, all of a sudden, his limbs were frozen. His lungs were burning now. Everything was burning. The world, his world, was burning in ice.

The unknown would soon become the known.

* * *

"Bah, I thought you'd never stop with that internal monologue."

The world was bright. Surely, that was no divine voice. He tried to open his eyes. Too bright.

"Kid, hello? You up?"

Was that a man? He tried to open his eyes again finding that they were beginning to adjust.

Colors.

The world was bright. Brighter than he'd ever seen. No, this wasn't heaven, he could tell that much. He didn't really know how, it was just a feeling. After all, what had he done to deserve heaven?

"Hey, kid!"

He was laying down on his back. He turned his head a bit, not knowing what to expect. He was thrown off guard by the sheer amount of red that met his vision. This, was this a man? Or a woman? Didn't sound like a woman. Didn't look like a man.

"Kid!" it yelled, flapping its arms. He laughed a bit. "What's so funny, huh? Ugh, why do I always get assigned to the special jobs?"

"Sorry," he found his voice.

"Yeah, yeah," it responded, muttering something about 'not knowing how to treat a lady'. "Welcome, kid. What's your name, anyways?"

"Ronald. Ronald Knox."

 **Yeah, so I have a little headcannon that Ronnie can draw. Fun fun. Uh...**

 **No Grell Sutcliff in men's clothing here (damn right), STAY AWESOME YOU GUYS!**

 **review?**


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